Hands Warmed by the Fire
by Gin-kyo
Summary: Every soldier in his army had a story to tell and Griffith thinks he's heard them all.


**Hands Warmed by the Fire**

Guts leaned against the parapet wall, caught between two companies.

The familiar weight of his sword blade against his shoulder centered him between waves of soothing heat that rose from the many campfires below, looking like red coals scattered over the ground, and the cold breeze that stirred pleasantly through the roots of his hair.

His view from the high battlement was grand. The abandoned fort the Hawks had secured for their night of revelry was even larger than the one before. Guts turned his face away from the warmth to look out at the horizon. The pale light of the hunter's moon beamed through the top of bare branches from far off woodlands.

Ever since the night he ran away from the tent where Gambino lie dead, he would look at the sky and imagine himself there. Sometimes he liked to imagine himself walking with the wind, leaf litter fluttering at his feet as moonlight parted a path though the darkness. Above him, the trees would rustle with his passing and usher him into arms of the wilderness. And all his senses would be sharpened like a sword.

But when the distant yapping of wolf voices and their haunting echoes sent a quiver up his spine, Guts turned away from the night sky to look back at the warm interior of the fort.

_He was down there somewhere. Surely._

Griffith wore a simple quilted tunic for warding off the autumn chill; it made him indistinguishable from the other Hawks in his company who wore similar padded clothes in a wide spectrum of earthy hues. He leaned back against rolled up canvas, a nearly empty pint of strong cask ale in his hand. The drink was specially purchased for the occasion from merchants of the countryside. He allowed his glass to be filled again to the brim though his cheeks were already rosy. Laughter came easily to him. Jokes and rousing tales were exchanged around his large campfire. His men gathered eagerly around him. He participated, receiving boisterous drunken applause, but more often he simply presided and listened, with a small reserved smile resting comfortably on his face.

Griffith allowed his eyes to close for a moment. He blocked out the merry faces of those who surrounded him and listened only to their voices and to the low contented roar of the fire over the crackle of brittle wood. He felt the red glow warm his eyelids and alcohol numb him from the inside. He let the sounds of revelry and music mix together and envelop him. Memories of past campfires stirred his quiet mind and he remembered…

There was once a Hawk who was a musician by trade.

He called himself Mershwin and he joined the band in old age after his house was pillaged and burned down, whole family along with it. There were many like him, but very few among mercenary ranks were artists because few artists were willing to trade instrument or brush for the sword. Or spill blood instead of ink.

He was a humble man, though he could be coaxed into flaunting his expertise with enough prodding from the younger Hawks who wanted to hear his songs. So he played and sung for them.

On a night just like this one, Old Mersh found a seat next to Griffith so he could finally speak openly with his great commander.

"Sir," he began, crow's feet lines spreading from the corner of his eyes. His face was florid with excitement. "When this is done, I will write a song fit for the assembly of kings and commoners alike. It will be a song to herald a man who rode out into the fields of battle with the confidence of an invincible army riding in his wake. Every man and woman who joined the charge was made strong and given the wings of a hawk. And anyone's scrap metal could be melted down and turned into a noble sword. And people will later ask themselves, _when we heard that song, were our hearts not burning within us_?"

Griffith lowered his glass and looked at him with wonder. "You humble me."

Mershwin looked down, suddenly sheepish. "Sir, you could make any talentless old music maker into an immortal poet. I've always wanted to be a bard of the court, but the favor was never with me. I've never been… formally educated, you see. Self-taught," He lifted up his lute. "and hand-made."

Griffith laughed. "I've made visits to court quite a few times and I've heard their musicians play."

Mershwin leaned forward with great interest.

"They are true virtuosos, the most elegant music I've ever heard. But they lack the fire you possess. Griffith put a hand on his shoulder. "The court would be undeserving of your spirit."

Mershwin fell during the following campaign. His fingers, so accustomed to the nuanced plucking of the strings of a lute never properly learned the strength required for drawing a bow. His lame leg slowed his gait, marked his age as weakness. His neck was pierced by an arrow. Slain by the better archer.

When Griffith next requested an evening song, the young men whom Mershwin had trained to be amateur instrumentalists of wind and string told him what had become of their music master.

_I saw him fall upon his back, which is better than falling face forward isn't it? Yeah. He was greeted by that white overcast sky. It is good to go like that, better than seeing your own grave. Probably thought he was flying._

There were many like him. Griffith never forgot a face, especially not one of his own, lit up by orange flames.

"—Griffith."

"Sir?"

Griffith opened his eyes when someone shook his shoulder. "hmm?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Griffith said with a light chuckle and returned to his drink. "Just listening to the music. They've improved a great deal haven't they?"

"Judeau is giving the young ones some pointers now. But when they find the time to practice is anyone's guess."

"Is he now?"

"That's Judeau for you. He knows a little bit about everything."

The chatter continued and Griffith scanned the top of the fort. A lone figure was perched atop the parapet. The silhouette of a giant sword set him apart from every other solider he'd ever known. He smiled briefly before he was nudged by a new face who wanted to clack glasses together with him. "Cheers, sir!"

And although he was starting to sway slightly in his seat from the alcohol, Griffith struck his glass and threw the rest of his pint back.

High above, the wind was picking up strength. Guts was picking at the last of the meat on his dinner plate and letting his mind drift on the borderline of companies when a boy, wearing an olive green tunic and hawk feather pinned proudly to his chest, came running quickly up the stairs.

"Captain Guts!" He announced loudly. "Griffith is asking for you."

Guts lowered his finished plate to the ground and rose to his feet. "What does he want? He asked as he descended the stairs with the young Hawk.

"Didn't say." The boy replied. "Though I think he might want to take a drink with you."

_With me?_

When Guts finally made his way to the largest campfire in the center where Griffith was, he saw immediately that his commander was in no way fit for any friendly drinking contest. Griffith's fingers curled tightly into the canvas roll in the sort of desperate grip that kept one grounded against a spinning world. His face was deeply flushed, tips of red ears peaked from thick locks of hair. He looked up to see Guts approach.

"Guts! Join us!" Griffith called, his voice, amazingly, did not betray any dizziness. The men erupted in a chorus of agreement.

Guts was about to sit next to him when Griffith threw his head back and burst with silly laughter. "Actually…" he sighed apologetically. "I think it's time I retire."

Guts finally met eyes with Griffith and saw a strange sort of pleading look there.

He nodded, understanding.

"Here." Guts said and slung Griffith's arm over his shoulder. They stood together and the men groaned in dissappointment but it was soon replaced with many _'good evening, sir'_s

"Take it easy, commander!"

"Good night all." Griffith called back.

Then the voices faded.

With Griffith's hand pulled close to his face, Guts saw that it was flushed up to pinkish fingertips. His full weight was leaning against him. Griffith was a bit heavier than he looked, as his slim frame was dense with muscle. He dragged his feet in poorly timed steps, lagging behind Guts'. It was very odd to see Griffith so graceless, staggering like a newborn foal trying to find its balance on long, unsure legs.

Griffith pointed ahead. "My tent is there, in the center. It's the one with the faded banner."

Guts pushed them through the tent flaps and deposited Griffith on to the bedroll, half expecting him to neatly right himself. But he just fell heavily on his back, ashen hair spilled over the ground. He laughed quietly to himself. "Thank you, Guts. I don't think I would've been able to make it back by myself."

"I've never seen you drunk before." Guts commented.

"It's been a while." Griffith admitted. "I don't usually—"he began, but suddenly changed his mind. "I'm not drunk!"

"Sure you aren't. Hey, take it easy would you?"

Griffith had flipped to his stomach and tried to push himself up, only to have his arms shake and crumple underneath him. "Why can't I get up?" he asked bluntly.

"Because your body is asking you not to. It would be better if you lie still, alright?"

Griffith looked as though he would try again in defiance, but he simply sighed and rolled over to his back. He glowed pale against the dark and dim canvas whites of the tent. Guts sat down across from the bedroll, giving Griffith room to breathe, but near enough that he would feel his presence. He busied himself with dragging over a shallow wooden washing tub and soaking pieces of cloth in the cool water. It felt automatic somehow.

He thought Griffith might have fallen asleep for how much silence hung between them. But then he spoke up. "You never join us unless you're asked. Why?"

Guts shrugged, ringing water out of a cloth.

"And you've never spoken about your history."

Guts froze.

"I've heard from many young men who've run away from home. To escape drunken fathers, most often. They were raised by dirty looks, fed on scraps of bread. They would sooner pick up the sword to fight and die for their freedom then endure—."

Guts dunked the next cloth into the tub, splashing water over the sides. "Enough of that."

"I've heard it all. Every kind of story." Griffith continued, unphased. His face still flushed.

"You distance yourself from the group. What of your prior companions? Perhaps they didn't truly count you among them and the mistrust weighs heavily on you still. Clinging to the edge of camp, that is what—"

"Enough!" Guts raised his voice, suddenly disarmed. He didn't know how to respond to this forwardness and so he found himself getting angry. "You've got it wrong. That has nothing to do with it. I like it up there. The wind soothes me. That is all."

"Does it now?" Griffith exhaled loudly. "I've never known a breeze that could take away one's loneliness." Griffith rolled to his side and directed his unfocused eyes in Guts' direction. "It can only make you forget."

Guts growled and slapped a damp cloth over Griffith's forehead. "You're very drunk." he said. "It's making you sweat. And it's making you talk funny."

_But Griffith always talked like that, didn't he?_

Griffith turned to his back again, this time looking at the corner of the tent. "Are you happy?" he asked suddenly, in a low, careful voice.

"What?"

"Are you happy among us, Guts?"

_Why would he ask such a thing? How could that be so important?_ Guts was silent for a while but wondered guiltily what Griffith would make of his hesitation.

"The Hawks are my home. They are where I belong and so yeah…I'm happy."

Guts meant it, though the words he formed felt strange and novel on his tongue and hollow in his ears, like it wasn't his voice.

A satisfied exhale. Then a groan.

Griffith would be tossing and turning, alone and drunk in the dark of his tent so that no one would be able to see… a solitary recovery.

His eyes were roving, unable to tell up from down. His breathing was strange… a little shallow, a little labored. "My apologies, Guts." and he sounded truely sorry. "Would you keep guard tonight? I'm afraid I drank too much."

"Yeah." said Guts. "Don't worry."

_This suits me._ he thought.


End file.
